


Bent or Broken

by XxLittleBirdxX



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also Book Spoilers maybe, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Past Sexual Abuse, Romance, SPOILERS FROM THE SHOW, Slow Burn, Smut, This tags list is a mess, Thoughts of past abuse, ishhh? Might not be so slow idk, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxLittleBirdxX/pseuds/XxLittleBirdxX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - after the finale of Season 5. Sansa did flee Ramsay and Winterfell with Theon. Sandor was left to die at the Trident way back when he was with Arya. The backstory of this is that while on the run, Sansa and Theon took refuge in the Quiet Isle, where Sansa was reunited with Sandor. Theon is left to return to his own home while Sansa and Sandor leave the Quiet Isle - planning to head to The Wall and seek out Jon Snow. They've been traveling together for months. </p>
<p>As this story begins, Ramsay is still very much on the hunt. Now in the North again, Sandor had left Sansa hidden in the woods while he went to a local village to find shelter and food for them. Unfortunately, Ramsay had reached the village first and his men started a fire after nobody was able to give him information on Sansa's whereabouts. Sandor escape the blaze, but not before his arm was burnt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Contacting me: I love to chat with fellow SanSan fans, so other than commenting here, feel free to add me on Skype. My username is: tracy.lynn99 and my tumblr is: klaroline-westeros.tumblr.com
> 
> P.S. This was a story I've thought of for a while, the main focus will be the romance sooo there are/will likely be inaccurate timelines / things that don't follow the books or show that I'll twist to make things more interesting for this fic.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated! Lets me know if anyone wants me to continue this or not. :)

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Night had fallen, the shadows swallowing up everything that the sun had previously illuminated. Sansa sat huddled within her thick cloak at the base of a large oak. Almost directly across from her, some feet away, the Hound had taken up a position on the old, molded length of a felled tree. Between them, a small fire offered slight warmth and just enough light for them to be able to see one another. As the seconds turned to minutes, and those too continued to tick by, she was left wondering how to broach the subject that had been troubling her for hours. Sandor had been wounded earlier in the day and had, until now, refused to stop long enough for his wound to be treated. He had even gone so far as to call her ‘stupid’ for suggesting such a thing.

In the beginning of their travels together, Sansa had been genuinely hurt by some of the comments that he made. By this point though, they rarely goaded much of a response. She had come to realize that his rude and uncouth personality were just part of the package deal with her companion. The very same companion that grimaced in pain every time his wounded arm was jostled. As he shifted his sword around so that it lay by his side, she witnessed yet another obvious flash of pain overcome the normal scowl. It was this that led to her finally standing from her position and walking over to where he sat. 

The look he gave her made Sansa contemplate turning right around and letting the stubborn man help himself, but she found that she couldn’t. It was her fault that he was hurt after all. She at least owed it to him to help if she could. More than that, she realized that she wanted to help him. Seeing him in pain didn't sit well with her. He was the strongest person she knew and for a time she had all but fooled herself into believing that not only could he keep her safe, but that he himself couldn't be defeated. Now, seeing his obvious pain and discomfort, she was forced to recognize once more that he was just a man and that she couldn't afford to ever allow herself to believe in silly little fantasies as she might have years ago. _It wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help her._

"Will you allow me to tend it now?" she asked softly, lifting one pale hand to gesture towards his arm. 

Her words resulted in Sansa now having his complete attention, where before he had been more interested in the wineskin that he was nursing. In his eyes, Sansa saw the pain that he sought to keep to himself, but she also saw something that worried her even more. Something that she hadn't ever seen within this man before, yet it was an emotion that Sansa herself was well aquainted with. _Fear._ He wasn't afraid of her, of course, but ever since he had returned that look had haunted him. It was his arm, she knew. More specifically how he had obtained the wound. He had been burned, and it was her fault.

"The Little Bird knows how to treat burns now, does she?" he retorted coldly, spitting on the ground. A flush spread through Sansa at his words, but she pushed forward regardless. 

"No, my Lord. But you do, I would wager. Tell me what to do, walk me through how to help. Please," she replied, adding that last word in a defeated whisper. Guilt raged so strongly within her that she could barely stand it. "It's the least I can do, after what I've caused," she added after a few moments of silence.

Inwardly, Sansa flinched whenever Sandor Clegane didn't dispute her words, but instead began giving clipped commands. She listened and soon the wound was treated as best as it could be given their very limited resources. At the end of it, she was kneeling between his legs, head bent as she focused on the final task of gingerly wrapping the cloth around his arm. Once that was done, she lifted her head slightly and met his gaze. Now that she was so close to him, it was impossible for her to look away.

It had always been his eyes that affected her the most. Not his scars, but his eyes. The rage she saw within them. It had frightened her because back then she hadn't understood how anyone could possibly be capable of such fury, and to constantly maintain it? An air of violence always surrounded this man as if at any moments notice he could snap and when he did it would end bloody for those unfortunate enough to have been around him at the time. She knew it was true, but now she also recognized that he wouldn't hurt her. It was a promise that he had made many years ago, but she still thought it to be true. He was here now, wasn't he? Protecting her from yet another 'sadistic little shit' as he referred to him. Only this time it was worse. Joffrey had been awful, but compared to Ramsay? Joffrey's punishment's had been child's play.

Sansa felt her own fear rising as they looked at one another. It threatened to crash upon her like a wave and that was something she wouldn't allow. Sandor was the strong one, he always had been, but now he seemed vulnerable and as selfish as it was, Sansa wanted nothing more than to see The Hound resurface. Not because she preferred him to Sandor, but because she needed his feriocity. She wished that she could borrow some of it for herself.

Acting on some strange impulse, Sansa leaned forward and pressed her lips against his own. It was a gentle kiss, one meant to soothe him, but Sandor stiffened at the contact of their lips meeting. Other than that, he didn't react at all at first. Whenever he finally did, it was to pull away from her as if she herself had burned him just then. He looked at her with a shocked expression, though that quickly gave way to a darker one. For her part, Sansa was just pleased to see that the fear was gone.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he rasped, glowering at her. "Don't play your little games with me, girl," Sandor continued, all but growling at her now. 

Sansa knew that he must be truly upset with her because he only called her 'girl' now whenever she did something he thought was stupid or something that the old Sansa might have said or done.

"No games..." she whispered, unsure of what else to say. 

It was true, though. She wouldn't even attempt to act with him the way that she had in King's Landing, with Littlefinger or even with her husband Ramsay. In all other scenarios she had to constantly pretend. To be someone else, to manipulate, give recite what others wanted to hear, but with Sandor Clegane? She had never had to do that. So why had she kissed him? She herself didn't know apart from her own feeble reasonings of wanting him to think of something else other than his burn. Maybe it was even because she feared he would realize that she was more trouble than she was worth and leave her to fend for herself.

Sansa parted her lips, preparing to apologize and hoping he would leave it be at that, but before she could speak, The Hound reached out and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her close again. The action was so quick that she lost her balance and instinctively put her arms out in front of her to stop her fall. Within seconds she had gone from trying to think of a way out of the mess she had just put herself in, to sprawling out on top of him. 

"No games, eh? You just wanted to kiss me, is that it?" he mocked and now she noted that he had an almost wild look about him. 

This could be perhaps the most dangerous that she had ever seen him, as he looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. Having been around Littlefinger and then married to Ramsay, she recognized the look of lust within him now, but somehow she still wasn't afraid. She and Sandor had traveled together for a long while now. Long enough that she had seen that look more than once, but not long enough that they were safe from Ramsay. In all that time he had never forced himself upon her and likely wouldn't have acted on his lust had she not just kissed him. But she had. And in doing so, Sansa knew that she had changed things between them. 

"You're able to look at my face now, I'll give you credit enough for that," he continued, interrupting her whirlwind of thoughts. "Are you no longer afraid of me? Think you've tamed the dog, then?" Sansa had no idea what to say to him at this point, and so she stayed silent, staring at him with wide eyes. "Men like me don't stop at sweet kisses." This time, his words were a veiled threat.

Once more proving that he was unnaturally fast for a man his size, The Hound altered their positions. She found herself lying down, the cold, hard ground at her back and a warm bodied, heavy Sandor Clegane pressing down on top of her. There was no mistaking the hard length of his manhood against her belly. Even through both of their clothes she could feel it. 

Soon enough, she felt his mouth as well. This time, he kissed her and it was nothing like the chaste press of the lips that she had given him earlier. Sandor kissed her like a man starved, his hands on either side of her waist, clutching her tightly as if he feared she would disappear otherwise.

After her initial surprise had passed, oddly enough she found that she didn't find his kisses to be repulsive. She wasn't aroused, but she _was_ curious. Enough to hesitantly kiss him back, slowly exploring the mouth of the only man she had willingly kissed in years. Sandor's left hand left her waist as he brought it up and tangled it into soft auburn tresses, angling her head so that he had better access to her mouth. At the same time, he shifted his own body as well and Sansa gasped as he rubbed his manhood against her core blatantly, eliciting an abrupt flash of pleasure within her; something that she had only felt on the very few occasions whenever she had touched herself down there.

However, it was her surprised gasp that broke the spell, and he tore his lips from hers, pulling back slightly. He stared at her expectantly and she realized that he was trying to scare her. It reminded her of another time, during the Battle of the Blackwater whenever he had taken a song from her. Except this time he was using his manhood as a weapon rather than a dagger. 

Sansa thought that perhaps he expected her to plead with him, to cry, to ask him to stop this at once. Why, though? What point was he trying to make? That he was just as much of a monster as the other men in her life? Sansa didn't believe that he was going to hurt her, and so it wasn't fear that quickened her pulse, but rather anticipation. She wasn't sure what to expect from him and she wasn't even sure what she wanted at this point, but this new turn of events had the strangest effect on her. The truth of it was that before she had even fled Winterfell with Theon, starting in King's Landing - she had felt numb inside; simply going through the motions of whatever it took for her to survive. At this moment though, she felt more alive than she had in months.

Whenever Sansa made no attempt to speak, his expression shuttered and she knew that was the end of it for now. Whatever _it_ was. "Go to sleep, Little Bird," he rasped as he rolled off of her and inevitably returned to his spot on the log, leaving her to do the same as she sought out her thin bedroll. They didn't speak anymore that night, and maybe it was for the best. She was having enough trouble sorting out her own thoughts. It was hours before she was finally able to drift off into a restless sleep.


	2. A Dog's Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Another part of him wanted to rage at her, and he nearly did, but then oddly enough the anger melted away just as quickly as it had come. She was wrong, of course, but it seemed that was something she would have to figure out on her own. There may be far worse out there, but if the Little Bird started putting too much trust in men like him, she wouldn't survive, and that was the one thing he was determined to make sure happened even if it was the last act of a scarred old dog. It had been the Elder Brother's suggestion that Sandor help her, but he did so because he wanted to. Not because he was told."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has no smut, sorry! It deals with Sandor's guilt mostly. Basically he hates himself and Sansa doesn't think he did anything wrong, but instead worries that he's angry with HER. Maybe they need to work on their communication a bit, hm? ;) 
> 
> And YES, I know that I ripped off the Ned Stark line about 'learning how to die', but it fit, so..I did it. Don't judge me, I miss Papa Stark. 
> 
> **Mentions of rape and sexual abuse in this chapter.**
> 
> Comments are appreciated! <3

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\- SANDOR'S POV -

The next morning, Sandor barely spoke to her. He wasn't a man of many words on any given day, but even less so now. Contrary to him, Sansa felt an almost incessant need to speak, and continually asked him about what had happened yesterday.

"I already told you, I went into the village, saw the banners of the flayed men and followed them. The small folk didn't have anything useful to say and so they burned," he muttered lifting his own burned arm up for her to see. The corner of his mouth began to twitch at the remembrance of the searing pain. He still felt it now, though this wasn't his first burn, and far from the worst, so it wasn't unbearable.

"Did you see him? Ramsay?" she asked and whenever he glanced at her again he noted the look of utter terror that had overcome her. Just as it always did whenever the subject of her Lord Husband came about. Which was often. 

"No. Don't think he was there." He hadn't ever laid eyes upon Roose's bastard, so he only knew what he looked like from Sansa's description, but as always - he was honest. No sense in lying to her. Sandor didn't think the man had even been there. 

All Sandor knew was that he was as much of a sadistic cunt as Joffrey had been. If not more so. And he would sooner spill the guts of Ramsay Bolton and Littlefucker both than let them near the Little Bird again. What the fuck had they done to her? Last he had seen Sansa she had been fearful, much as she was now, yes...but there had still been an innocence in her. He had both hated it, and been drawn towards it. Now she smiled less, and more often than not he saw a blank look on her face. The look of someone who has almost given up.

He wasn't stupid, he knew that Bolton had raped her. It was _that_ fact that made Sandor more convinced than ever that the Elder Brother had been spouting nothing other than horse shit whenever he stated that the gods had more in store for Sandor. That there was a chance for him to redeem himself. Because despite knowing what she had been through, Sandor had still acted every bit the monster that people thought him to be last night. 

Not that he was pious. Even after spending so much time on the Quiet Isle he hadn't found it within himself to truly believe in and worship the gods. Sandor respected the Elder Brother and dug their graves as he was asked - and for that he had access to a bed, warm meal and if he was lucky, wine on occasion. Then the Little Bird had shown up and everything changed. But he shouldn't have ever gone with her. Should have known that he would cause more harm than good. After all, The Hound excelled at nothing except destruction and drinking, and despite The Elder Brother's beliefs; the Hound would always live on within him. 

Regardless he was here, and offered her more than that mumbling, scared little Greyjoy boy had. Mayhap he shouldn't feel guilty. He had wanted her to realize that just because he had offered to take her to her brother and protect her didn't mean that he was some knight come to her rescue. Yet he _did_ feel the shame of his actions and as a result he craved a flagon of sour red now more than ever rather than this piss poor excuse for wine that he currently had.

"I'm sorry..." Sansa's sudden soft words were uttered so quietly that he barely heard them.

Whipping around, he faced her. She who was now decidedly a woman, but still on occasion just as naive as she always had been. "You're sorry?" he repeated, incredulous. 

Tears filled her eyes and she cast them down. "It's my fault you were hurt. You continue to risk so much for me, and I have nothing to offer you except putting your life in danger. I know that, and I'm sorry, but please don't hate me."

A conflicting array of reactions welled within him, each stronger than the last. Shock, disbelief and fury among a few of them. She believed that his silence was because he was _angry with her_. He hadn't been before, but he fucking was now. 

"You think my life is some precious thing to me? I learned how to die a long time ago, Little Bird. My options were limited from the start. Continue digging graves on that bloody isle, or die with a sword in my hand."

Striding forward he put a hand under her chin, forcing it up. "Look at me," he demanded, clenching his jaw. "Do not ever apologize to me again. I thought that little girl from King's Landing was gone? You're a woman now, and have always been smarter than you led on, so think before you chirp." Stepping back suddenly, he looked down at her shaking his head.

"You apologize to me, as if you've done something wrong, and yet last night I was the one that had you pinned to the ground and rubbed my cock against you as if you were nothing more than a piece of meat. Something I bet your _Lord Husband_ would have done. So don't waste your apologies on me. We both know I'm not worth it."

It wasn't pity or forgiveness that he wanted from her. It was the same as it always had been. Sandor wanted for her to open her eyes and see things for what they were. To see people like him for what they were. He wasn't some hero from a song that had saved her. Doing something decent didn't make you a hero. For the most part she was well on her way to understanding this shithole of a world, but there were times whenever she would still assume that she needed to be sorry for things that were beyond her control or that had nothing to do with her. That was what Joffrey had taught her. Cersei and the rest of them. Probably Ramsay fucking Bolton as well.

It was strange to think that while he would like to kill them all, he still hated himself more. Once he had thought he was nothing like Gregor, but after what he had done last night, he began to question that. 

"Ramsay wouldn't have stopped. He's done far worse, and I knew that I never had anything to fear from you," Sansa said, looking at him with a peculiar expression.

"Daft Little Bird," he retorted, wishing that it were possible to make her understand how foolish she sounded. "Praise goes to the dog for not raping you, how gallant I am," he continued, utterly disgusted with both her and himself.

"I kissed _you_ , and I don't recall ever asking you to stop. If you had done something that I didn't want you to do, I would have made it known. You won't hurt me, you told me so yourself, and you aren't a liar. Why does it make me daft to think that there's good in you? It may just be that _you're_ the daft one for not seeing it," Sansa replied calmly, her tone matter-of-fact. 

Part of him was proud. _This_ was Sansa Stark, proving that there was still life in her and that she was still very much capable of forming her own thoughts and opinions. She had grown into her own quite a bit because she would have never dared utter such blunt words back in King's Landing. To him or anyone else. 

Another part of him wanted to rage at her, and he nearly did, but then oddly enough the anger melted away just as quickly as it had come. She was wrong, of course, but it seemed that was something she would have to figure out on her own. There may be far worse out there, but if the Little Bird started putting too much trust in men like him, she wouldn't survive, and that was the one thing he was determined to make sure happened even if it was the last act of a scarred old dog. It had been the Elder Brother's suggestion that Sandor help her, but he did so because he wanted to. Not because he was told.

"We'd best keep moving," he replied and without saying another word, he lifted her up onto Stranger before seating himself in front of her. Sandor wouldn't have hurt her, it was true. But he _had_ wanted to take her last night. To fuck her, and that was just as bad. 

Sandor's thoughts turned toward the Wolf Bitch just then. Pity she wasn't here, because surely Arya Stark would have told her sister how wrong her delusions were as well.


	3. Winter Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They had been through much these past months together. Food had become so scarce that she had worried they would starve at times, at others Sansa had been afraid that the cold would be their end, or that they would be captured by the Boltons. There was always some danger, but he kept them alive. He gave her his food whenever there was too little, he gave her his cloak whenever she became too cold and he gave her the blood of those who sought to harm her. "

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\- SANSA'S POV -

The following week passed without incident. At least as much as could be expected. They had no run-ins with Bolton men and for that, Sansa was grateful. She was even more grateful for the fact that it had been days since they had heard the dreadful baying of the hounds. Myranda had told her stories about how Ramsay would set his hounds loose on women in the woods and hunt them. Just like what was happening now. It was another reminder that without Sandor, she wouldn't have made it nearly this far. His own family dealt with dogs, and he himself had a fondness for them. Needless to say, it was his knowledge on how to evade the hounds that had kept them from being captured thus far.

That wasn't to say that things were exactly going according to plan, though. Sansa had wanted to travel as far as North goes - to the Wall. Jon was probably the only one that would help her now, other than Sandor. He was family, and he wouldn't betray her for fear of the Bolton's wrath. It seemed that either Roose or Ramsay had predicted her next move, however, and at every turn they were forced to turn back. Bolton men were spread throughout the North and the only way they'd been able to avoid them was to travel south, which was decidedly _not_ the way that they needed to go.

It couldn't be helped. "The further South we go, the more chance we have of casting ourselves into the paths of those who are loyal to Lannisters," Sansa insisted, realizing that he would already know this, but feeling a need to voice her fears out loud just the same.

"If we go North, that is exactly what the Bolton's will expect. They're waiting for you to become desperate enough to try and slip by them and are likely already at The Wall. It would be Bolton's that greeted you there, not just Jon Snow," Sandor argued. 

The urge to weep was there, but Sansa buried it. She was tired of crying, tired of being a pawn, and so tired of running. Would she ever see Jon again? Or Arya? Bran and Rickon? They were all that remained of her family and the only one whose location she knew was Jon, yet she couldn't reach him. 

"We cannot run forever," she whispered. 

At her words, she felt the arm around her waist tighten just the slightest. Sometimes Sansa rode behind him on the horse; sometimes in front, and once she had even had her own pony for a while but she was glad that now she had Sandor Clegane at her back. It made her feel safe, and that was a rare feeling indeed in this world filled with so many enemies.

"We won't." His tone was gentler than usual, and she found herself believing him. 

They had been through much these past months together. Food had become so scarce that she had worried they would starve at times, at others Sansa had been afraid that the cold would be their end, or that they would be captured by the Boltons. There was always some danger, but he kept them alive. He gave her his food whenever there was too little, he gave her his cloak whenever she became too cold and he gave her the blood of those who sought to harm her. 

Laying one hand over the large arm at her waist, Sansa allowed her head to fall back against the strong chest behind her and she closed her eyes, feeling snowflakes settle onto her cheeks. A sense of what she could almost call peace fell over her; but was then snatched away to replaced by a chill of fear as she bolted upright at the sound that pierced her ears. The dogs.

Letting loose a string of curses that would have once made her blush, Sandor dug his heels into his warhorse's flanks, urging Stranger forward and soon the trees were whipping by and she had to close her eyes against the harsh bite of the cold and snow.

Whenever they came to an abrupt stop, she watched with wide eyes as Sandor dismounted before pulling her from the saddle as well, heedless to her protests. 

"What are you doing?!" she cried out whenever he slapped Stranger's rump, sending the horse and most of their belongings galloping away. 

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Sandor moved forward a few steps and she realized that they were standing on a small cliff, water from the White Knife rushing below them. 

"We'll jump, and swim further down the bank. It's the only way to lose the Hounds." his rasping voice was close to her ear, but she had trouble focusing. It was such a long fall and if that alone didn't kill them, the freezing temperatures would.

Sandor turned her in his arms and she looked up at him, not bothering to try and hide her fear. His expression softened the slightest and he brought his other hand up so that now both of his large palms encased either of her shoulders. 

"Trust me in this. If in nothing else, trust me to keep you alive, Sansa." She gave a slight nod at his words and he pulled her close then. It was the closest thing to a hug he had ever given her. Sansa's own arms wound themselves around him and Sansa took comfort in how large he was. How strong. So unlike herself. But it was short lived. The howling of the hounds grew louder as they honed in on their prey.

Pulling away, he moved so that he stood beside her on the edge of the cliff; a grim look on his face as he studied the swirling torrents below. "Keep kicking. No matter what, you focus on keeping your head above water. Don't let go of me," he ordered. All she could do was nod in response.

Clasping her hand in his, Sandor hesitated no longer and they took the last couple of steps forward until there was no more solid ground beneath them. Feeling as if her heart were in her throat, she struggled not to scream. Sansa had once heard that in similar situations, times seemed to slow down. Later on, she would reflect on how wrong that was. 

She barely had time to register the fact that they were falling before the icy waters of the White Knife were pulling her under. Whenever she hit, it was like a thousand needles stabbing her all over her body; so cold that it stole her breath from her.

Panic gripped Sansa as she tumbled around in the water, unable to breath or even decipher which way the surface was. Throughout it all though, she still felt the warmth of Sandor's hand as he held onto her and acting out of desperation, she reached out blindly until the fingers of her free hand came into contact with the cold steel of his armor.

She felt him pulling her up, and then her head was out of the water and she was gasping for air, sucking in great gulps of it while Sandor did the same. "Swim!", he croaked, pushing her along in front of him. It was difficult, her dress kept wrapping around her legs and her cloak was pulling her down. 

How much time had passed? It felt like a lifetime. With each second, she could feel the freezing water soaking her dress - numbing her body and her ability to keep moving. _It was so cold and she was so tired._ Even Sandor was slowing, and undoubtedly it was even more difficult for him as he had armor on as well as a wounded arm.

Whenever the current began pulling her under a second time, she was unable to fight it. She tried, but without having eaten properly in a while and lack of sleep, her body just couldn't keep up with the demands of her mind. Her consciousness was slipping whenever she felt the Hound hauling her up once more out of the water and partially over his shoulder.

"Stay awake, Little Bird. Fight, damn you!" the darkness was creeping around the edges of her vision at this point and though she knew he was right with her, his voice sounded distant. 

Only then it wasn't just Sandor's voice. There were several. Father? Robb? Could it be that she was dead and soon to be reunited with her family at last? Or had the Bolton's found them after all?

The last thing she remembered seeing before the darkness took her was a man with a spear that had three points pulling her onto land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, thoughts? Who do you think found them? Tired of no smut, yet? Bear with me on that! 
> 
> What do y'all think about Sandor's inner conflict? He thinks she shouldn't place so much trust in him, and yet in a dangerous moment he asks for just that. Maybe our Hound isn't being honest with himself. 
> 
> I may or may not be updating tonight. I have work early in the morning. At the latest it should only be two days before the next chapter is up. Probably sooner than that, though!


	4. Friend or Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was an anchor for her. She saw him as more than a friend or protector. Sansa couldn't, however, put a name to what it was that she felt. All she could think was that she didn't want to lose him. Maybe it was simply that she didn't want to be alone, or maybe it was something more. Something that neither of them were familiar with."
> 
> **SPOILERS FROM THE BOOKS IN THIS CHAPTER / ALTERED SCENE **

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\- SANSA'S POV -

Awareness and oblivion battled within Sansa. She cracked her eyes open for what felt like the thousandth time, and was somehow able to keep them that way despite wanting nothing more than to return to a dreamworld where none of this was happening. Murmuring voices could be heard, but she didn't focus on them straight away. Instead, Sansa peered up at Sandor. He was holding her, and there was a warm blanket of furs covering them, though it didn't help much. Her dress was still sodden, and although his armor had been removed, his tunic was soaked as well. Most important though was that he didn't seem too distressed about their current situation. He watched with alert eyes, but otherwise made no move to fight off whomever had been speaking. It gave her the courage to look for herself. 

Whenever she dared peek out, it wasn't banners with flayed men upon them that she saw, nor anyone that she recognized as Bolton men. In fact, she didn't see any banners at all. They wore armor, but rather than swords they held the same three pointed spears that she had first seen. A name to the weapon was at the back of her mind, and she struggled to grasp it, but her exhausted brain refused to cooperate. 

Sandor must have seen her staring, for he spoke then, his voice low. "Tridents. They are Manderly men."

The Manderlys? At his words, the men turned to them, noticing now that she was awake, but saying nothing. Sansa knew them to be sworn to her family. At least they had been. But so had many others. Including the Boltons. 

"Where are they taking us?" she demanded, but it wasn't Sandor who answered. It was one of the men holding a Trident. 

"To Merman's Court, Milady. Lord Wyman will receive you," he answered, though his gaze kept flickering to Sandor more than her for some reason.

____________

True to their word, Sansa recognized the city as they entered it. Not from any memory of having been there before, but from what she had heard of it from others. Once they docked, the rest of the journey was made on foot and Sansa stayed close to Sandor. She desperately wished that she could speak to him, voice the questions that were swirling around in her mind. Should she reveal who she was? Did he have a plan? What if the Boltons were following them even now? All of these thoughts and more consumed her as they strode towards their uncertain fate. But she knew she couldn't speak freely with these men around them, and so she must be strong. She wasn't a child anymore, and after everything, this should hardly be frightening at all. 

Nothing could have prepared her for Merman's Court. The name was certainly fitting. Everywhere that she looked she saw sea creatures. Etched into the walls, ceiling and even the floor that they walked upon. It was a large room, filled with people and the heavy thud of the footfall's belonging to the men around her seemed to echo, whilst her own feet padded silently, struggling to keep up with the longer strides of her companions.

At last, they came to a halt, and whenever Sansa glanced up she was met with the sight of a particularly fat man, merely two or three feet away, sitting on what almost appeared to be a throne. Nothing like the Iron Throne, of course, but nonetheless, his girth covered most of it. A group of men sat to her left at one of the large tables that surrounded them in the Great Hall, all filled with food, each morsel looking better than the last. The aroma was even more appealing and she was mortified whenever her stomach growled loudly in agreement with her thoughts. 

A booming laugh was testament enough that the sound had been heard and she returned her wide eyed gaze to the fat man who she knew must be Lord Wyman Manderly. 

"It does look delectable, doesn't it, My Lady?" Lord Manderly asked, studying her curiously before addressing his soldiers. "Well, what is this that you've brought me? These people look half drowned," he noted glancing down at the puddle that was forming where she and Sandor stood. 

"My Lord, we found these two in the White Knife, the currents were dragging them under. I thought to bring them to you after I realized who this one was," one of the men piped up. 

As those last words left his mouth, Sansa felt her entire body stiffen. _He knew who she was_. However, whenever she looked up, it wasn't _her_ whom everyone stared at, it was Sandor. She too turned her gaze to him.

"Aye, I'm The Hound," he ground out, answering the unspoken question that was directed at him. Sansa couldn't help but flinch at the admission.

"I Heard you were dead. Also heard that the Lannisters put a bounty on your head," Wyman stated casually. 

"One of those is true." At his gruff reply, Sandor shifted closer to her.

"I see. Why is it that The Hound has ventured this far North? And to be found with a woman at his side in the White Knife at that," Lord Wyman's tone was difficult to read, but Sansa could sense that he was at least curious. Perhaps his curiosity would make him listen. 

She took a tentative step forward, preparing to tell him who she was with the hopes that he wouldn't betray her whenever Sandor's hand wrapped around her waist and he yanked her back, flush against himself in such a way that her body was turned towards him and she was no longer facing the Lord in front of her whose mercy they were both at. 

"Fuck the Lannisters. North is the only direction I could go to avoid seeing those golden haired cunts. Came across this Wildling along the way. Figured we could keep one another company for a while," he rasped, his arm draped possessively around her. The meaning of his words couldn't be missed and for a moment Sansa wanted to slap him. She wasn't a whore, and she wasn't a Wildling Whore at that, but then she thought better of it. He was saying this for a reason, and she trusted him enough to go along with it. 

"There _have_ been sightings of wildlings venturing south of the wall now more than ever," Wyman muttered, peering at her. It was then that she realized she must look exactly that. Wild. Her hair was wet, tangled and matted, she was dirty and gaunt, her dress had long since been ripped, stained and tattered beyond recognition. She didn't look like a Lady anymore. Now, though, that may have been working in her favor. 

Suddenly, her hopes were shattered whenever he returned his gaze to Sandor and his expression became cold; angry even. Wyman waved his hand dismissively and sat back in his cushioned throne. "Take them to the Wolf's Den." At his words, both she and Sandor were seized once more, yet before either of them could speak out, a young woman did so for them. 

"Why are these two being imprisoned? The Lannisters hold my father captive, and even now we have Frey men sitting in this very hall eating our food, yet you wish to send someone to the Wolf's Den for speaking out against the Lannisters? I say this man should feast with us, and the Frey's should rot in the cells," she spoke, her high pitched voice carrying loudly across the hall. Sansa studied her then. She had green hair, braided down one side and stood just behind Lord Wyman. In her eyes shone a fierce hatred that Sansa knew very well. 

"Hold your tongue, Wylla!" Wyman ordered, his face turning red with either rage or humiliation. Maybe both. 

"They killed Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn and King Robb. He was our king! He was brave and good and the Freys murdered him." Wylla refused to be deterred by Lord Manderly's threats and held her head high.

At that point, Wylla Manderly had Sansa's full attention. She was young, but she was very outspoken, and stubborn. She reminded Sansa of Arya, and her words reminded Sansa of her family. It had been a long time since she'd heard their names spoken aloud, and in such a way as to defend them and give voice to their wrongful deaths at that. An agonizing pang of grief grasped her heart and it was all she could do to keep from joining the woman and voicing her own anger as Wylla and Wyman continued their small banter until finally the girl was dragged from the Hall.

Without even so much as glancing in their direction, Wyman gestured towards them once more and they too were taken away; outside of Merman's court, down cobblestones and into a giant fortress that served as the Wolf's Den Prison. They passed cell after cell filled with people. At times the stench of feces and urine was so strong that she had to cover her mouth and nose with her hand to avoid vomiting. At other times, the air smelled musty but otherwise devoid of anything particularly foul. 

Eventually they stopped in front of the cell that they were shoved inside before the door was slammed shut behind them. She could hear them being locked in. 

"No shackles..." It was the only thing Sansa could think to say in that moment. Everything was so confusing. It had all happened so fast and she was left with more worries than before they had arrived here. At least before they had known what they were up against. Now there was one Manderly speaking for them, while the Lord feasted with Freys and had Sansa and Sandor imprisoned. Without even finishing questioning them. As if it didn't matter to him. Lord Wyman hadn't even seemed to care much about who she was. After Sandor had spoken out against the Lannisters he seemed to have made up his mind rather quickly. 

"Why did you say those things?" she asked, turning to him. He was even more silent than usual. 

"Anything else I might have said would have been a lie that everyone in that Hall would have seen through, Little Bird." He was taking note of their surroundings and eventually settled his eyes back to her. "If I die, I die. They won't execute you, they've no reason to other than thinking that you're a wildling. They'll release you and you can seek out that big bitch. The one who's been trailing us for weeks now," Sandor muttered and she knew that he must be referring to Brienne of Tarth. 

The Warrior Maid had offered to help Sansa once before; and Sansa had refused after hearing Littlefinger confront the woman and bring up her many past failures as a protector. Yet, although Sansa felt bad about listening to Littlefinger and doubting the woman whenever perhaps it should have been the opposite - she couldn't bring herself to regret it. For now she was with someone that she knew without a doubt that she could trust. Even if they were currently in a cell. 

"You won't be executed. I only need to speak to the girl with the green hair. Wylla, he had called her. She is loyal to my family; she will help us both," Sansa reasoned and her voice sounded stronger than she herself felt on the inside. 

It took only a few strides for Sandor to place himself in front of her. "Foolish Bird. Haven't you learned by now that you can't trust people?" 

"I trust you," she replied. Tilting her head up, she expected to be met with his familiar exasperation, but whenever she finally set her gaze upon the large man looming over her, he didn't seem upset. Resigned, maybe. Tired, yes. But not angry with her.

"Aye, and look where that's got you." he gestured around as if it weren't obvious to her that they were prisoners. His motions brought her attention back to his arm and it was only then that she realized how he was favoring it. 

Striding forward, she stopped whenever she stood in front of him and reached out to gingerly take his arm, careful not to grab him where he was burnt. Gently she moved to peel back the cloth that clung to his skin, still damp from the waters of the White Knife. Before she could, though, he grasped her wrist in his free hand, effectively stopping her movements. "Going to kiss me again while you nurse my wounds?" he rasped, forcing her hand away before she could even touch him. "Don't bother, there's nothing to change the bandaging with anyways, and the water in the cloth is keeping it cool, it's not uncomfortable," he muttered.

Rather than let her go like she expected, he continued to hold onto her and she could almost see the internal debate as he fought with himself. Eventually he did release her, but only so that he could bring his large hand up and brush away a wayward curl from her face. His expression was unreadable; completely shuttered from her and she wondered what he might be thinking.

Sansa's own train of thoughts weren't pleasant. She was afraid again, but mostly for him. This was a man who she had once feared. The years had changed much. Whenever they had first met, she had been unable to look at him and found his attitude and brash words to be unseemly for a Lady's presence. Now she couldn't imagine life without him. He was an anchor for her. She saw him as more than a friend or protector. Sansa couldn't, however, put a name to what it was that she felt. All she could think was that she didn't want to lose him. Maybe it was simply that she didn't want to be alone, or maybe it was something more. Something that neither of them were familiar with. It wasn't like the girlish, giddy feeling that she had felt around Joffrey before she knew what a monster he was, or even with the handsome Ser Loras. She refused to call it love, not yet anyways. Part of Sansa wanted to think that she could never 'fall in love' again. When had her interactions with men whom she was meant to be romantically tied with ever gone well for her? Regardless of whatever it may be - it was genuine. And it was strong. It was easier for her to just admit to herself that she cared for him deeply, and not look further into the matter. Thankfully, he interrupted her before she could dwell on it anymore.

"I want you, Little Bird. I always have. You know that, don't you?" he rasped suddenly, but continued before she could even think to reply in her surprised state. "Seeing you look at the bloody Knight of Flowers the way you did...I hated him for that. Wanted to hate you too. Never could." He sat down heavily on the edge of the hard cot and stared at her with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable. "I made two vows to myself in my shitty excuse for a life. Two that I meant to keep if they were the last things I did. One was to kill my brother. I failed. The other was to see you to safety. I failed again," he drew in a shuddering breath before continuing. "But before I die, you'll make a vow of your own to me. Tell me that you'll keep going. That you will find Brienne of fucking Tarth and see yourself to safety. Do what myself or any buggering Knight hasn't been able to do; protect yourself. Make that vow, and I'll go to my grave knowing that at least the one good thing in my life hasn't had her light snuffed out by the shit stains in this realm."

This time, the tears did come and there was no holding them back. Sansa rushed forward and shoved herself into his arms, burrowing her face in the column of his throat as she clung to him, finally acknowledging the fact that he may very well be executed soon, and all because he was trying to help her. Despite that, he didn't blame her, he didn't hate her and he only wanted her to continue on their original path. 

Never had his blunt words and harsh truths hit her as hard as they did in that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I would like to start out by apologizing. I had meant to update only a few days later, but life did the annoying thing where it gets in the way of good intentions. A combination of work, school and sick family members derailed my plans for a bit. However, this chapter is longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for it a bit! 
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments so far! <3
> 
> Also - I did use and change certain things that happened in the book with another character for this chapter. So some of you may know where this is heading.
> 
> I will try to update soon! Comments and thoughts appreciated! Annnd, I know I've been promising smut, but I wanted to wait until it felt right. That being said - expect some next chapter! Or...expect to skip over certain parts in the next chapter if you prefer fluff. ;)


	5. Worship Like A Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What I _want_ is for something to be my choice for once. Ever since I left Winterfell, my choice was taken from me. I was manipulated and forced into marriages that I didn't want. Forced to denounce my own family to Joffrey. To wed men that I didn't love. Forced to share a bed with a man I hate." As she spoke, she had been untying the many laces of her gown, and he was mesmerized by both her actions and her words. She may not even be telling the truth. For all he knew this could be a pity fuck, meant as a kind gesture to a man living on borrowed time, but he wouldn't refuse her. He had meant it when he said he wasn't a gallant knight. Nor a decent man. He sure as shit wasn't going to say no to the woman who had haunted both his dreams and waking moments for years. No, he would eat the words right out of the palm of her hand and believe them. Just like a dog begging for scraps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title as well as my go-to song for this chapter (that I listened to on repeat basically) is 'Take Me to Church' as it is PERFECT for SanSan. Give it a listen - and if ya know of any fanvids of SanSan made to this song, please do share as I've been dying to see one. The song: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0imaSCnSuA>
> 
> Smut, Smut, Fluff, Smut and more Fluff. That is really all this chapter is. I felt bad that my previous chapter took so long to update, so I wanted to type this one out as well. Surprisingly enough - this one turned out to be even longer than the last. Although despite that...there is literally no forward movement as far as the plot goes. It's just...have I mentioned? Fluff and smut. 
> 
> So yeah if you're adverse to reading about sex, cocks and cunts (in these words and more similar to them as Sandor doesn't censor his thoughts and this chapter is from his POV) then you can skip this one! If you generally like smut and fluff and all that good stuff - I truly hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments and Kudos feed the writer ya know ;)

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\- SANDOR'S POV -

Sandor couldn't possibly be more aware of how fragile and breakable the woman in his arms was than at that time as she molded her small form against his, almost as if she were trying to burrow into him as close as she could get. Compared to other women she might have been tall, but she was such a delicate Little Bird, no matter how much she had grown. There was a Wolf that at times warred with the Bird, he'd seen it, but her heart remained gentle. _Pure._ Despite all that had happened to her. Whenever they had first reunited she had been in her own shell, practically numb to the world but as time passed and especially more recently, he had begun to see the promise of a spark in her. Now, though, she seemed almost broken. _Pointless to weep for a dog,_ he thought, but didn't voice it. Instead he held her, ignoring the pain in his wounded arm as he enveloped her, dragging her more securely against his chest so that she was cradled in his lap, her head tucked against his neck.

He could feel her warm breath against his chilled skin and slowly but surely the sobs that wracked her frame slowed and the wetness against his neck that he knew to be her tears eventually dried. The bastards could have at least brought her some dry clothes. Mayhap it was better this way, though. If they didn't notice her, they wouldn't grow suspicious about her and they wouldn't find out who she truly was. "You're alright, Little Bird," he said quietly, rubbing his hands up and down her arms in an attempt to warm her now shivering frame. He also attempted to ignore his hardened cock. 

Abruptly he stood, gently depositing her onto the floor and turned to pull the scratchy, thin blanket from the bed. He wrapped it around her shoulders before sitting on the bed once more, hands in his lap in a way that was meant to shield her eyes from the bulge in his breeches. Normally, he wouldn't have cared, but he had taken a risk in saying 'fuck the Lannisters'. One that had revealed that the Manderlys weren't loyal to the Starks anymore and ensuring his knowledge that Sansa shouldn't trust them, but it had also been a fatal decision on his part. He would die now, he knew, and his only regret was that he wasn't completely certain that Sansa would be safe. The last thing she needed was to feel his cock against her whenever she only sought comfort. 

Sandor had admitted to her that he wanted her and that she had been the only good memory in his life and she hadn't turned away. The opposite, in fact. She had ran straight into his arms. But he wouldn't push his luck. "You'll want to lay low for a while, mingle with the small folk if you must, but whatever you do keep that fiery hair of yours hidden. The Manderlys might not have recognized you, but the Boltons are specifically in search of a red haired woman. You stand out. Don't specifically go asking around for the Tarth woman," he began, watching her closely to make sure she understood. Much to his irritation though, she shook her head mutely, as if in denial of his words.

"Tell me you'll do as I say." His voice was quiet, but the fact that this was a demand and not a request couldn't be missed. Except by the Little Bird, apparently, for she made no move to reply. No, she just stood there and stared at him with those wide, Tully blue eyes. "You used to be so talented at chirping. Where is that in the one time I want it?" His jaw clenched in frustration. 

"I don't want you to die. I...." she paused, as if searching for words. "I need you, and you're speaking as if your death is certain. Making plans as if you're already dead," she was angry now, he could tell. Good. Anger was as good as anything to keep a person going.

A strange expression overtook her then. He recognized determination and sadness, but there was something else there as well. Sandor watched her warily as she moved towards him and stopped. This very situation mirrored one that they'd previously had. In which she had kissed him, and he had very nearly taken her on the ground. Now, she pushed the blanket off of her, dropping it onto the floor. With her gaze never leaving his, she reached up and he knew her intent was to remove her dress next. 

"Did you not hear what I said? You're not meant for the likes of me. Do you want to be taken in a cold, damp cell? By The Hound? I don't know what you're thinking in that pretty little head of yours, but I only have so much self control. If you think I'm going to play the gallant Knight and turn away from you when you keep doing shit like this, you're wrong." It was a warning, both to himself and her. He could already feel his control slipping, his eyes wandering to the curves that were revealed by the wet dress that clung to her and his cock throbbing almost painfully in his breeches. The idea that she could want him was ridiculous. Genuinely want him. She was...Sansa Stark. Appealing in every way, kind, and a true Lady. He was a scarred, stinking old dog.

"What I _want_ is for something to be my choice for once. Ever since I left Winterfell, my choice was taken from me. I was manipulated and forced into marriages that I didn't want. Forced to denounce my own family to Joffrey. To wed men that I didn't love. Forced to share a bed with a man I hate." As she spoke, she had been untying the many laces of her gown, and he was mesmerized by both her actions and her words. She may not even be telling the truth. For all he knew this could be a pity fuck, meant as a kind gesture to a man living on borrowed time, but he wouldn't refuse her. He had meant it when he said he wasn't a gallant knight. Nor a decent man. He sure as shit wasn't going to say no to the woman who had haunted both his dreams and waking moments for years. No, he would eat the words right out of the palm of her hand and believe them. Just like a dog begging for scraps.

Unbidden, his large palm came to rest on her hip and he pulled her closer. His heart hammered in his chest as she turned her back to him and lifted her hair, waiting for him to undo the last of the knots. He obeyed the unspoken command with trembling hands. Once done, she turned back to him and now her tattered dress was held up only by her arms as she pressed the thin material against her chest. Slowly, she released it and it fell to the floor in a heap. Her shift left very little to imagination, but he wanted to see all of her. Every inch.

Sandor stood then, and his hand wandered up her side until he cupped the underside of her breast. She closed her eyes at that, a content look upon her face. "No," he choked out, his voice more hoarse than ever. "Look at me." It wasn't a demand this time. It was almost a plea. If she was offering herself to him, he wanted her to see _him_ , not to think of someone else. She hadn't turned away from his ugly face even once since they had traveled together, but now more than ever he needed her to see him. To not look at him in fear or disgust; to see him as a man, not a monster. Though the last shred of whatever conscious he had already railed at him and reminded him that he _was_ a monster for laying his paws on her, he didn't want her to see him that way. 

Opening her eyes, she searched his face before reaching up and placing a palm directly against his burns. He flinched, but managed to avoid the instinct to jerk away. He clenched his jaw and allowed it. Welcomed it, even. To be sure it was the first time a woman had purposely touched his burns. Not that he had ever wanted anyone to. And whenever she tangled her fingers in his hair and gently tugged his face down towards her own, he welcomed that too.

"Show me what it can be like between a man and a woman that truly care for one another," she whispered whenever they were mere inches apart. This time, it was she that trembled.

"Little Bird," he rasped. Somehow it had gone from a mocking nickname, to one of fondness, and now it might as well have been a prayer.

Whenever he kissed her, he was gentle. For her he would be as gentle as he could. He wouldn't hurt her. Sandor kept reminding himself to move slowly. After all, this might yet be his last night alive, and his only taste of her. He would make it count. Then there was the fact that she was clearly at a loss as to what to do. A woman wed she may be, but this was new to her. Her hands fluttered from his shoulders, to his chest, to his waist and back up again as if she didn't know where to place them. He wondered just what the hell Bolton had done to her, but soon pushed the thought from his mind. For it was only yet another reminder of one more thing he had failed to do. Kill the men who had hurt her.

His only other experience with fucking was with whores, and they had never been uncertain, nor had they beat around the bush. They all went straight for his cock. Then again, he had rarely kissed any of them and most of the time took them from behind like the dog he was. Never had he thought to be gentle, nor thought about their pleasure. Sandor had never been one to get off by hurting women, but all he had wanted was to release the tension - his demons so to speak and then he would leave and seek out his own bed. Or wine. Either way, he wasn't well educated in what happened between men and women who cared about one another, as she had said, but he had an idea. Gentle. Slow. Seek out her pleasure before his own. 

Catching her hands gently within his own, he brought them up past his chest and she latched onto him, her dainty little fingers curling about his shoulders and neck. He grinned against her lips at that. Better her hands weren't near his cock just yet, else he'd spill himself like a green boy. It had been too long since he'd fucked a woman, and yet he had never ceased to wonder at what it would be like to have _this_ woman. He wanted it to last. 

Stepping back, he admired her. Pert nipples poked out against the shift she wore, and he watched as she became shy again, a pretty pink blush coloring the ivory of her cheeks. Sandor chuckled, shaking his head.

"You aren't even naked yet," he teased and she gave him an indignant look, blue eyes darting up and down his own body pointedly.

"Neither are you," she retorted, a shy, uncertain smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

With a raised eyebrow, he studied her before shrugging and grabbing the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head. If she would be more comfortable with him getting naked first, so be it. Unlike women, most men didn't give two shits if someone saw them without clothes. Himself included. He went to take off his breeches and finally free his tortured cock but froze whenever she touched his chest. The feel of their bare skin touching, even if it was just her palm, sent a shock of electricity through him.

Her eyes roved over his newly bared flesh, and although she still blushed, it seemed that her curiosity won out. With a finger she traced a scar that trailed from his navel up into the coarse hairs that speckled his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath. Gods, but he wanted her. He was fairly certain he had never been so hard in his life and had to keep reminding himself to keep control. She wasn't a whore that he could ride and then throw a few coins at afterwards. Seven Hells, she was too sweet for him to sully at all with his touch, but he was too far gone now to back away. Only unless she told him to stop to would he be able to find the will to leave her be. There would be no sudden acts of chivalry on his part otherwise.

Bending, he grabbed the flimsy hem of her shift and pulled it up and over her head, along with removing the rest of her smallclothes until she stood before him as naked as her nameday. "Fuck," he whispered, drinking in the sight of her. Pale, porcelain skin that looked as soft as silk. Full teats tipped with rosy nipples and a patch of auburn curls a few shades darker than the hair on her head covered her cunt. Beautiful. It wasn't a word that he used to describe much of anything, but a beauty she was. He had always known it, but now she was a woman with all of a woman's charms. 

Reaching for her, Sandor lifted Sansa so that her hands inevitably rested on his torso once more. Turning, he gently laid her down on the bed and though he wanted to look at her more, the urge to now touch was too strong to deny any longer. Stretching his body out beside her own so that he wasn't crushing her, he began to caress her cheek before trailing his thumb over her soft bottom lip. He was pleasantly surprised whenever she parted her mouth and her tongue tentatively touched his thumb, not quite suckling but still enough to make him throb at that thought of what else she could do with that tongue. 

Replacing his thumb with his mouth, he kissed her, more deeply than before. He reached down and cupped a teat once more, this time fully and without a shift to hinder him. The same thumb that she had just tasted now rubbed over her hardened nipple and she gasped against his mouth. In response, he ground his still confined length against her thigh. Even through his breeches it felt good.

Leaving her mouth, he left a wet trail as he kissed his way down her jaw, cheek, collarbone until he reached her teats, at which point he began worshipping her for true. Suckling, kneading, rubbing and kissing until she was gasping and squirming beneath him. He paused then, unable to completely grasp the gift of this situation.

"Sandor, please..." she murmured, as polite as ever. Her tone was both a plea and a demand. He cast a glance down to see her thighs were pressed firmly together though she was still squirming and looking at him as no other woman had before. With blatant desire. 

"Please what?" he asked, needing to hear it. To hear the affirmation that she indeed wanted him to touch her. That this wasn't just her allowing the dog one last treat. Even if it was a lie, he needed it all the same. 

"Don't stop," she replied and parted her legs just the slightest. She wasn't so vulgar as to voice anything more, the Lady in her was too strong, but he got the hint all the same and that was enough. His sweet little bird wanted him to touch her and that realization alone was nearly too good to be true. 

He trailed kisses down her belly and shifted himself so that he was kneeling on the floor between her now sprawled legs. Pressing his lips against the inside of her thighs he noted that she was wet. He could see the proof of it glistening on the lips of her pink little cunt. Upon impulse, he kissed her there as well and was rewarded with a gasp. Using his tongue, he sought out the little nub that he had heard whores talk about. Apparently it was the source of pleasure for a woman, and though this was his first time searching for it, he knew he had found the spot whenever a quiet moan erupted from her lips and she bucked her hips involuntarily against his face.

"That's it, Little Bird. Sing for me," he muttered, eyes fixated on her as he resumed laving at her with his tongue. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched him as he did this, her own gaze narrowing in pleasure but never completely closing as if she knew of his need for her to look at him. Momentarily releasing her, he moved his hands down to unlace his breeches and impatiently shoved them down to his knees. Then with one hand he took his cock in hand and stroked himself once, relieving some of the pressure that was building there. At the same time, he probed at her entrance with one finger, and it slipped inside easily enough. She was slicker than he had known. He continued to lick her nub while he slowly pushed another finger inside and began moving them both. As he increased his pace, her moans grew louder and her head fell back against the bed, turning from side to side.

Sandor watched in a lust filled haze as she moved beneath him, letting go of all her noble morals and giving in to the pleasures of the flesh. She tasted better than any wine, and while watching her in the throes of passion he thought perhaps it wasn't so bad if he were to die. After this -what more could he ask for? Other than to feel the tight clench of her cunt on his cock that was. 

As it were, said cunt contracted around his fingers at the same time that her fists abandoned their place of clutching at the thin sheets covering the cot to entangle themselves in his hair. Her hips lifted off the bed and she held him to her as if she feared he would dare move away. With a cry, she took her pleasure and only once she removed her hands from his head did he even attempt to move. 

With the taste of her still fresh, he pushed himself up, ignoring the pang in his thigh as the old wound reminded him that it was still there, though long healed. As he stood, her eyes sought out his length that was finally revealed to her. His breeches pooled around his ankles and he kicked them away.

Whenever she met his eyes again, he couldn't help but to think that she looked thoroughly fucked. Auburn hair spilled around her shoulders, lips swollen from kisses, and a contented smile gracing her lips. And he hadn't even been inside of her yet. "I never knew it could be that...lovely," she murmured, hesitating as if unsure of what word to use to describe what she had felt. Her breasts still heaved from the exertion and her blue hues remained dark with desire. 

"And I always knew you would sing so sweetly," he replied with a proud smirk, crawling up and over her. Her attention again ventured to his cock, and she reached down between them once he was close enough. Her hand close around his length and he thrust himself against her, grunting at the pleasure that alone elicited. 

Still, he was thrilled at her boldness whenever she positioned him at her entrance, and without wasting any time, he began pushing inside of her. His first instinct was to slam into her and began fucking her hard and fast, but he managed to stop himself, if only barely. Instead, he slowly but surely worked his cock into her until she rocked back against him. It was only then that he began moving for true. 

Her walls clenched him so tightly that the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. Yet it was something he would rather die than leave. "Seven hells, but you feel good," he growled and a few seconds later he felt her kissing his chest, before her arms encircled his back and soon enough her legs wrapped themselves around his waist.

She clung to him as he thrust into her time and time again, soft sounds poured from her lips and urging him on. Nearing his climax, he buried his face against the softness of her hair. Suddenly, he stilled within her and groaned, hands clutching either side of her hips as he held her to him.

Even after, he didn't move. Not at first. He was loathe to leave the haven he had found, but knew that he was too heavy to stay atop her. 

Finally pulling out of her, he rolled to the side and she did the same so that they were facing one another. He searched her face, looking for anything negative in her expression but found only a still somewhat modest, yet contented smile. Lowering her gaze demurely, she scooted over and lay her head on his arm, face pressed against his collarbone. No words were said; none were needed. He knew that soon they would need to dress again and await whatever it was that the Manderlys had in store for him, but for now the Little Bird was safe, and in his arms and for the first time since he had been a child he felt true contentment.


	6. The North Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That night, whenever she finally drifted off to sleep, her dreams were a turmoil that reflected her thoughts. In a series of flashes she saw her entire family, all standing there smiling at her. The scene melted away until she was back in King's Landing, watching as her father was beheaded, only then Robb and her mother were executed right in front of her as well. All the while Joffrey laughed, Cersei smirked and Sansa covered her eyes with her hands. She fell to her knees whenever the blunt of Ser Meryn's sword slammed against her legs. With her eyes still squeezed shut, she reached out blindly and her hands were met with soft fur. She knew immediately that it was Lady. Desperately, Sansa clung to her wolf, only to be yanked away by her hair. She found herself sprawled on her back, and looked up to see her sister staring down at her angrily. "Liar! Liar, liar, liar! It's your fault!" Everytime Arya yelled, she kicked Sansa, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa knew that Lady was dead now too. "

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\- SANSA'S POV -

Sansa's knees were drawn up against her chest as she sat upright on the cot. They had taken him away. To execute him. She had screamed and begged and tried to hold onto him, but he had been dragged away all the same. Sandor hadn't fought them, and she wanted to hate him for that, but really - she just mourned. She would go on, as he had asked, but she would never forget. If she survived this, she would repay the debt of what had been done.

Why did everyone she cared about have to die? She must be cursed. Everything had been perfect, and during their time together she had even managed to forget that they were truly saying goodbye. He hadn't hurt her. In fact, he had given her more pleasure than she had thought possible. Sansa wasn't so pure as to lie and say that she hadn't touched herself before, but this time it had been him to give her the pleasure that she had so very rarely sought for herself. If she were being honest though, that hardly mattered to her. Sansa's experience with Sandor may have been the first time that she hadn't felt pain while being intimate with a man, but it was also her first time _willingly_ doing so. The truth of it was that it hurt the most knowing that it was because of her that he was dead. He had left the Quiet Isle, where it had been safe for him, and now he was dead. Before that, he had risked his life constantly while on the run from Boltons. All to protect her. 

The door creaked open loudly, allowing light to spill into the small confines of the room and Sansa squinted through tear blurred eyes at the figure that stood before her. Green hair. The girl tentatively stepped into the cell, her sharp, intelligent gaze never leaving Sansa's.

"My Lady," she greeted Sansa with formal words, pausing before her mouth opened once more and she looked at Sansa hopefully before continuing. "I've brought you something more appropriate for you to change into," Wylla stated, moving to place the folded gown on the cot. Sansa watched her warily as she did so. "Apologies, we couldn't risk allowing handmaidens to come aid you in this...it's difficult to know who to trust, but I would be happy to help you put it on if it please you?" 

Sansa noted how different her attitude was from whenever she had been defiantly speaking out against the Lannisters and the Boltons. Then she had looked fierce, and now..there was gentleness within her. "Nobody can be trusted with anything, and I only want to leave." Her words were bitter, for no matter how much Sansa adored this girl for her loyalty to the Starks - Sandor had still been taken away and executed on her grandfather's orders. The Manderlys as a whole weren't friends of hers.

"You can trust me, Lady Stark. The North Remembers." Wylla spoke quietly, but earnestly and with conviction. 

Tully blue hues darted up to meet the clear depths of the other woman's eyes. She thought about denying who she was, but hadn't it been her initial intention to trust this girl? Except Sandor was supposed to have left this place alive with her. "How do you know who I am?" she asked. If Wylla knew, Wyman Manderly might as well. The Boltons or Lannisters could be on their way even now. She wouldn't go back. She couldn't. Not to either of them. 

"I promise all will be explained, but we haven't a lot of time. Please," Wylla said, again motioning towards the dress.

The North Remembers. Sansa kept repeating this in her mind as she robotically changed out of her soiled gown and into the soft, clean one that had been offered to her. She wasn't alone. Even if he was gone, she wasn't alone. She couldn't be. The North Remembers.

The pain of knowing that she would never see Sandor again, mingled with her guilt, were overwhelming as she mutely followed Wylla outside of the cell and down a passageway that she didn't recognize. This wasn't the way they had come in, but why would it be? If this girl was truly helping her, it only made sense that they would go a different route to avoid being seen.

However, instead of being led out of the castle and away from this place, she was ushered into a large room where a hearth crackled, casting light and warmth upon everything near it. A table was covered in salted meats and freshly baked bread and more fish than she could name. Again, Sansa thought about how hungry she was. And thirsty. But all of that was shoved to a dark corner of her mind whenever she spotted the man sitting at the far end of the table, and she turned to shoot an infuriated glare at Wylla, who had shut the door behind them. A few men stood guard nearby, but barely looked at her as she entered the room.

"My Lady, please, have a seat," Lord Manderly called. Though it wasn't as if they were terribly far apart, his voice still boomed across the room.

"Are you certain you want a Stark sitting at your table, my Lord?" she asked coldly, making no move to take the seat offered to her.

"I do apologize for the little show. I'll admit, I knew who you were whenever we first met. Your hair, my dear. It's a blatant give away. You look very much like your mother. But, you see, it wasn't just that. Ramsay Bolton has sent men and Ravens throughout the North. He's searching for you..for his wife...so in truth, I would have a Bolton sitting at my table. He is your husband now, is he not?" There was no malice that Sansa could detect in his tone, but nevertheless, she bristled all the same. 

"Yes, by marriage I am a Bolton. Before that, I was a Lannister. I did what I had to do in order to survive, but make no mistake, my Lord. I will always be a Stark. I spent far too much time denying that fact to please others. No more. So if this is you feeding your prisoner while waiting for Ramsay to come, don't bother. I'd sooner return to that cell." That last part was a lie. She would sooner _die_ than return to Ramsay and had no intentions of waiting meekly by for him to come and collect her. She would die in the end anyways if she were forced to return to him. If it came to it, she would hang herself in that very cell, so that there was nothing but a corpse for him to take back to Winterfell. But if Manderly thought she meant to harm herself, there would be men standing nearby to prevent it, she was sure. So she didn't speak of her true intentions.

Though Sansa had spoken calmly, Lord Manderly stared at her so intensely that one might have thought she had just revealed some great secret. Loathing filled her at the thought. Was it so odd that she wouldn't be groveling at the feet of this traitor? A meal and kind words did nothing for her. Sansa had been supplied that in King's Landing as well as in the Vale. Even Winterfell at times whenever she had been with the Boltons. The meals were to keep her alive because she was needed that way, and the kind words? Lies. Nothing but lies and manipulations. Sansa had learned to play that game herself, and might have considered doing so now had she not known that this man had just executed Sandor Clegane. 

Wylla Manderly strode silently past Sansa and came to stand directly behind her grandfather's chair. She was staring at Sansa proudly, a warm smile gracing her lips. Similarly, Lord Wyman seemed to have gotten over his shock and was now regarding her in much the same manner.

"I told you, grandfather." Wylla's voice was quiet, but Sansa heard, and wondered what the woman was talking about. Before she could voice that question though, Lord Wyman spoke once more. 

"Lady Sansa, again I must ask for your forgiveness. I did not mean to sound as if I were accusing you. I have no intentions of handing you over to Ramsay Bolton. If you'll give me but a moment to explain, I promise to do just that," he murmured, once more gesturing towards the seat.

Whenever it became clear that Sansa wasn't going to sit, he sighed and began giving her an explanation regardless. Lord Wyman told her about how he couldn't have welcomed her the way he truly wished to with Frey men there. It would have taken only one of them to escape and then the Boltons and Lannisters alike would have known exactly where to find Sansa Stark. So instead, he had her hauled off along with The Hound to ensure that no attention was called to her. His explanation did little to soothe her worries.

"The Hound," she said suddenly, interrupting what he might have said next in his story of how and why the events had unfolded as they had. "Is he already dead?" her voice was strong and sure and she held her head high, unwilling to allow her pain to be known, while at the same time demanding the answer that she feared she knew to be true in her heart.

"The Lannisters hold my son. A show of loyalty towards them such as beheading the dog that betrayed them and killed the King's men...well, that may just be the act that returns my son to me." His words might as well have been a physical blow. Somehow, though, she managed to keep herself upright and composed, if only barely. Perhaps it was all the practice she'd had in King's Landing with learning of the slaughter of her family that had honed her ability to repress her true emotions. 

Apparently not well enough, though. She said nothing, but Lord Manderly seemed to sense that she was upset all the same. 

"This bothers you, my Lady? Forgive me, but...The Hound is notoriously known as being one of the most brutal killers around. As well as a drunkard. Certainly not a person who one would think to be associated with a highborn Lady such as yourself. How did you come to be in his company?"

Sansa's hands clenched at her sides, even as her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest. She still wasn't sure if it was love that she felt for him. Her experience in such matters were limited and muddled, but she did care for him and it hurt to know that she would never see him again. Badly. 

"He saved my life. He kept me alive. A killer he may have been, but he was good to me. In his own way. So yes, it bothers me very much." Sansa wanted to yell and scream and tell them the truth of it. He had saved her in King's Landing, he had been the first to offer to take her from that place, and he had willingly left a peaceful home at the Quiet Isle to try and see her to safety. She found that she couldn't - and didn't want to - divulge this information though. As strange as it may be, it was something that she felt was for her to know. Her truth that was meant to be kept locked away inside. She had known the good in the man beneath the beast, and that was what mattered. It wasn't as if anything she said now would be able to undo what had been done anyways. 

Wyman Manderly nodded, seemingly lost in thought. But whenever he spoke again, it wasn't about Sandor. It seemed as if she had never mentioned him at all. "Lady Stark," he began haltingly, clearing his throat before continuing. "As I've mentioned, I have no intention of returning you to the grasp of the Boltons, but Ramsay himself will be here within a week at most. I'm certain it's because he thinks you're here. So it would be wise that you weren't. Don't mistake me, House Manderly remembers just as well as the rest of the North, but now is not the time to spill blood..."

From there on, Lord Manderly and Wylla alike began to question her, and offer tidbits of information and suggestions alike. 

Hours later, Sansa was sitting in Wylla's chamber with a belly full of hot food and drink, sitting on a soft bed. Beside her, Wylla slept peacefully. Sansa kept thinking on everything that had happened. Lord Wyman had all but interrogated her, and Sansa found herself explaining how she had escaped Winterfell, crossed paths with Sandor and then how they'd been on the run from the Boltons as they sought out her half brother, Jon. She kept certain things to herself, though. She didn't mention Theon, or go into detail as to exactly what horrible things Ramsay had done to her, or the fact that she had met Sandor on the Quiet Isle. The parts about Ramsay were too personal and revolting to voice to a man she barely knew and hardly trusted, and the other parts? She saw no point in mentioning them. Theon had his own troubles and the Quiet Isle was a place away from the wars. No need to drag the brothers there into it. Like she already had with Sandor. 

All she knew now was that in a matter of days, she would be on a ship. If Lord Manderly was telling the truth. He claimed that House Manderly despised the Lannisters, Freys and Boltons and that they were very much still loyal to House Stark. He claimed that she would board his ship in secret and that it would sail her as close as possible to the Wall, and from there on, she would be escorted the rest of the way. After that it would be up to her and Jon to speak with the other Northern Lords. House Manderly had a fleet of ships and men willing to bleed for the Starks. She had but to seek out the others who felt the same, and then her enemies would pay for what had been done to her family. 

All his promises and his vows, they sounded wonderful. She wanted to believe them, but what proof had been given to her? Sansa found that trust was a thing hard won anymore. Actions spoke louder than words and she would have to see it to believe it.

Even then, nothing would bring Sandor Clegane back to life. There she sat; fed, clothed and comfortable. All due to a man that had executed Sandor but said that he was loyal to her family. She couldn't recall ever feeling so conflicted. Part of her hated him, and yet another part was trying desperately to not get her hopes up at the prospect of finally reuniting with Jon. 

 

_________________

 

That night, whenever she finally drifted off to sleep, her dreams were a turmoil that reflected her thoughts; shown in a series of flashbacks. 

_There stood her entire family - smiling at her. Father, Mother, Arya, Robb, Jon, Bran and Rickon. Even Old Nan was there. Soon the scene melted away until she was back in King's Landing, watching as her father was beheaded, only then Robb and her mother were executed right in front of her as well. All the while Joffrey laughed, Cersei smirked and Sansa covered her eyes with her hands._

_She fell to her knees whenever the blunt of Ser Meryn's sword slammed against her legs. With her eyes still squeezed shut, she reached out blindly and her hands were met with soft fur. She knew immediately that it was Lady. Desperately, Sansa clung to her wolf, only to be yanked away by her hair. She found herself sprawled on her back, and looked up to see her sister staring down at her angrily. "Liar! Liar, liar, liar! It's your fault!" Every time Arya yelled, she kicked Sansa, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa knew that Lady was dead now too._

_Hands stroking her hair replaced the kicks her sister aimed at her. "Don't fret, sweetling, " the words were whispered in her ear and she smelled his minty breath as he leaned close to her, pulling her to her feet. Baelish guided her forward, through the crowd in the Red Keep and towards the large doors._

_Whenever they passed through them though, they were no longer in King's Landing. Instead, she was faced with the familiar walls of Winterfell. "Come, wife. Time for bed," Ramsay urged, reaching for her hand, even as Baelish pushed her forward. "Avenge them Sansa," Baelish whispered. Whenever she looked back, Littlefinger was gone. Ramsay shoved her onto the bed and loomed over her. "A fitting bride. You've done what I myself haven't yet accomplished. You've killed your father." As he leaned closer to her, Sansa screamed._

Her eyes popped open to see a concerned, unfamiliar face looking down at her. Sansa struggled for a moment until she recognized her as Wylla, and everything came flooding back. "It's alright, my Lady. It was only a dream," she murmured. 

_Yes, it was only a dream, but that didn't make any of it less true._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's current opinion of the Manderly's aside - I just wanted y'all to know that I personally adore them XD Especially lil Wylla. (also please excuse the lack of Sandor in this chapter, I'll make up for it in the next).
> 
> Basically, this is plot that was lacking in the smut filled last chapter...
> 
> As always, thanks for the comments! Keep em' coming!


End file.
